


Mercy

by perifairy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Possible Spoilers, in this house we respect and honor the ultimate power non-couple of the marvel cinematic universe, let them live
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 05:21:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17656697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perifairy/pseuds/perifairy
Summary: "What then are we to say? This evil takes its rise from anger; for anger, after it has been long use and indulgence made a man forget mercy, and driven all feelings of human fellowship from his mind, passes finally into cruelty."Steve and Natasha deal with the aftermath.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KiraFigs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiraFigs/gifts), [WidowWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WidowWitch/gifts), [MalFairchild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalFairchild/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own any within and of Marvel, its characters and its universes. The beautiful string of words from the summary is from Seneca's, "Of Anger". 
> 
> I made a lot of liberties in this fic - such as the tone, the words and on some occasions, the intended ambiguity.
> 
> Lately, writing has been my therapy. But tenses still kill me. Still highly unbeta'ed, not because it's not welcome (it is welcome!, for anyone who wants to volunteer) but because I'm just emotionally high-strung at the moment and so is this fic.
> 
> Enjoy.

She shoots and shoots and shoots, her eyes never leaving the targets and Natasha thinks - if only her hands get steadier, and her resolve less unwavering - if she tries harder than this, she would be able to conjure the image of Thanos’ haunting face exactly right at where the bullets hit the marks. And so by then, she would shoot _faster_ , _harder_ still, and not any less relentless - _merciless_ \- and perhaps when he disintegrates before her very eyes into speckles of dust, like _ashes_ , her family and everyone else will come back to life.

(But if there is any further injury, then you shall appoint as a penalty life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise.)

It’s all muscle memory. The way her hands grip the glock and the sweat forming in her brow, it reminds her of the Red Room and she almost, _almost_ , finds it in herself to thank them. In some ironic turn about of circumstance, she was reaping the dark seeds of her training and if it were able to save the world, she could have let herself believe it was worth it. But it was never enough.

Steve gazes at her from the other side of the room and turns to leave. If she ever knew he was watching, she didn’t show. 

* * *

The aftermath is hard, but it is rather more frustrating when she deals it with Steve. Or when she deals _with_ Steve. Or _Steve_ , on whatever and however the aftermath is dealth with in conjunction with him. She remembers the way he turns around in full panic the moment the dust _seemed_  to settle. She laughs dryly at the thought of dust settling, of flesh and blood of family gone in a snap, just like that - and she remembers him reaching for her and calling her name.

That’s it.

Natasha pays no mind to the chaos; she knows it is coming, but Steve distances himself to her respectably. As respectable as a captain to a second in command could be, but as painful as a lover - for a second, she doubts - _shouldn’t_ ever be. To a degree, she understands. They are sorting through issues on top of issues on top of issues - the fall, the government (or what’s left of it), the rest of the team, Wakanda, Tony’s disappearance, and Bruce, _fucking_ Bruce - so she clearly understands. They simply don’t have the time to deal with whatever they left hanging in the air. In hindsight, she knew, the decision to be with him is none the wiser but who can fault her? She loved the man. She would die for him. At the wake of every single loss she had in her entire fucking life - so much loss that there are no lines left to distinguish the loss from life itself, how much more the gains - she had taken and will take whatever he can give her. Steve gives himself and an extension of more of him too. They somehow fill each other's voids.

(We have what we have when we have it.)

Natasha is grateful, because the issues are excuses to dance around each other as long as they can. Their lives are ironies of time - when they were on the run, they didn’t have much of time that they craved for each other and indulged as much as they can. Now the world has gone to total darkness, and time seems to be the only thing they have left. Time used to be a scarcity, and in an ironic turn about of circumstance, now their biggest luxury. But Steve keeps his distance, so Natasha does too, and they dance along each other as long as they can.

Let the excuses come. The delays are a blessing to her, for she also knows deep inside as she craves for him and more of him each day they spend apart, that being close is not for comfort, but for breaking apart. 

* * *

Mercy comes in the form of a role reversal.

This time, he punches the heavy bag in quick succession. Rapid breathing, sweat clinging to his body everywhere, Natasha hears him grunt on every hit and they are laced with vexation, of resentment not even bothering to hide itself. She waits and waits and waits until he is at his point of exhaustion and if he knew she was watching, he didn’t show.

“Let’s spar.”

Steve looks at her wordlessly, his face impassive but he rounds the corner then walks into the mat. Sam once noted he especially hates the way they can communicate in a single look and the thought of Sam not being here hurts - so Natasha diverts the thought away and agrees with the friend she misses terribly, as if to honor him. It has been both a blessing and curse, she would say. They know each other so well, she can read him so well, can predict his moves so well - this should come easy. But when she finds herself flung at her back with restrained strength, she 1) is caught on a surprise which is very unlike her, goes to show how rusty she has become and she needs the practice and 2) marvels at the way Steve can still surprise her after all this time. Natasha smirks at her partner, his arms caging her body, hard eyes looking back at her.

How do they say this? He keeps her on her toes.

She charges forward and with channeled rage, sweeps him off his feet in one swift move. He is the one now caught in surprise, but he gets back on his feet almost immediately, dodging the force of the hit of her punch that should have broken the side of his face had it landed. Unlike Steve, Natasha comes at him in full energy, because - and let this be considered in all ways and means possible - she can truly be herself with him. She knows he can take her just as she is.

“Yield.”

There is a minute or two that passes until Steve flips them over and it becomes a mess of tangled limbs and arms, and of hits and blocks. His strength is still restrained as he pins her down.

“Natasha.”

She hurts at the thought that the last time he’s truly spoken to her, it was her name that he said, and in a short amount of time, hearing it again - it is as if her name is the only thing he knows.

But Natasha is lithe as she is swift and with all her strength, she flips them over, pinning him down once more this time with less mercy.

“I said, yield.”

Steve doesn’t move an inch.

_“Yield!”_

Instead, he closes his eyes and reaches for her face slowly, her long blonde hair softly framing her face. A sharp contrast at the ragged way she is breathing, her body turning losing its will and she wants nothing but to curl against him, sweat and tears right there in the mat. After all, she is nothing but a mess. But the way his hands touches her, _reverent_ , tells her she still finds her beautiful. She is as beautiful as he has found her to be just like the first time.

So Natasha understands by then, more if possible. It is as she feared.

(Too close is not comfort, it is to break apart.)

This time, Steve does not restrain himself when she cups her face, both of his hands holding her, his fingers sharp against her tender bones. He kisses her, relentless - _merciless_ \- her mouth opening fully to take what he is willing to give. He kisses her like he is losing himself, like he is breathing her in. Natasha lets him touch her with a sense of ownership, and her hands trail down her body like liquid fire. It was unfamiliar, unlike the many times he has touched her before, where there is a painful contrast between gentle and persistent. At times, his fingers dance around her skin, circling her wrist, leaving soft kisses at its wake. But by the time his hands hands grip her things, open and wide, it is laced with a hunger that is past the point of mere craving. She moans at the feel of him all over her, filling her senses.

His hands are everywhere, as much as he can reach - her face, the skin behind her ears, the scars at the side of her breast. Gentle, yet persistent - filled, yet ravenous. In every sense of the word, he touches her as if he is engraving her in his memory and when his lips touch her breastbone, she cries. His hands go lower and settles there, touching her, being _in_ her and they do this again - as with all the other things they do together - like muscle memory. He grunts and sighs, _f_ _aster_ ,  _harder_  still, and not any less relentless -  _merciless -_ and when he’s inside her, perhaps she disintegrates into speckles of dust, like  _ashes_ , and she has come back to life.

(By God, let the dead have mercy.)

“Don’t ever leave me.”

So Natasha understands. Too close is not comfort, it is of breaking apart. And closer?

“Don’t ever. _Nat_.”

Closer is falling back together, tighter, being weaved down right to the soul.

“Only if you promise me the same.”

Natasha thinks of the way he once put himself to sleep, a final heroic act to save the world. Asking him to do it differently, to _choose_ to live (she wants to beg, even if the only reason he has left is her - especially because of her) is none the wiser, yet she asks him all the same.  A promise he might not be able to keep, but at least she tried. And when the world will ask them, _him_ , one more time, she begs them for forgiveness, grace from her dead family and friends, because she is not about to lose him without putting up a fight.

Natasha finally lets herself cry.

May the gods have mercy on her.

* * *

 

**end.**  


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the gods had given her mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers still apply.  
> You may opt not to read this. 
> 
> You have been warned.

And so the gods had given her mercy.

The thing she remembers is the darkness, and the dust slowly falling into the ground.

Her ears are ringing from a shout, and she knows it is Steve, and she smiles because he has come for her.

* * *

 

His hand shakes, grime and blood coating in his nails, and he tightens the strap on his shield.

Natasha has put up her own fight, and with her lifeless body on the ground, the captain decides.

It is up to him to take on what he _knows_ deep inside would be his last.

He takes one last look at his lost love.

* * *

 

_"What then are we to say? This evil takes its rise from anger; for anger, after it has been long use and indulgence made a man forget mercy, and driven all feelings of human fellowship from his mind, passes finally into cruelty."_

May God have mercy on him.

May God have mercy on them all.

* * *

 

**end**.

**Author's Note:**

> For Kira, Betty (consider this a substitute gift for now) and Malie (especially the ending).
> 
> 1) Exodus 21:23-25 is the first quote (verse) to appear in this story.
> 
> Hours after, I'm still not sure which is hotter in that spot: Steve clenching his jaw or Natasha in a braid firing a gun with her guns.
> 
> Needless to say, I'm 100% certain I will die on the stevenat hill. Who's with me?
> 
> Thank you for your time and I will appreciate a minute spared for a kudos/comment.


End file.
